Act IV: The Courtroom Calamity
Chapter 16: In Session, Out of Order
Flannery felt the vibration of the gavel through his shoes as it banged three brisk reports on the dais. The myriad conversations and rustling of papers that had filled the grand hall during recess hushed at once. Delegates and officials settled back into their semi-circular seating, a low murmur of anticipation rippling outward. Up on the raised central platform, the presiding officer – the elderly diplomat with the mane of snowy white hair – adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. A keen-eyed aide at his elbow discreetly brushed a stray biscuit crumb from the lapel of the diplomat's formal coat. It was an almost comically domestic gesture amid the high-stakes atmosphere, and Flannery, watching from his seat at the side of the floor, had to bite back a tired smile. The air still carried the scent of coffee and pastry from the break, mingling oddly with the ever-present hint of electronics and ozone from the hall's array of holo-projectors. Overhead, the domed ceiling continued to simulate a cosmic vista; the earlier comet trail had passed, and now a cluster of distant stars twinkled benignly as if nothing at all were amiss in the universe.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and intelligences," the presiding officer began, his voice amplified to a confident echo by the sound system. "Thank you for returning promptly. The Dyson Administrative Tribunal reconvenes." He placed both hands on the podium, the gesture steady, authoritative. "We have heard the key witness testimonies before the recess. Now, this body must wrestle with the core issues at hand: the classification of the nanite units, the responsibility for the outbreak and its damages, and the measures to prevent such an incident from ever recurring." He spoke slowly, each phrase dropping into the silence with weight. Around Flannery, a few dozen faces – human, AI avatars on screens or drones, even one or two alien silhouettes representing off-world stakeholders – all turned toward the podium with rapt attention. The room's lighting had dimmed slightly as the proceedings moved from narrative testimonies to deliberation, lending a solemn, almost theatrical aura to the tribunal chamber.
Flannery sat with hands clasped tightly in his lap. The cushion of his chair, though plush, could not prevent the stiff discomfort seeping into his back; he had been sitting far too long over the past hours, and stress knotted every muscle. Siobhan was just behind him and to the right, her presence a steady reassurance. He could hear the rustle of her turning pages on a datapad – likely reviewing her notes or the Habitat Authority's regulations for the hundredth time. To Flannery's left, the corporate delegation occupied a block of seats, and he glimpsed Morgan's stern profile, jaw clenched as if biting down an urge to object preemptively to whatever was said next. On the other side of the central floor sat Governor Okoro and a cadre of Habitat Coalition officials in their flowing, color-coded robes – a visual reminder of their bureaucratic domains (emerald green for environmental safety, midnight blue for security, maroon for infrastructure, each shade a rank in the Coalition's hierarchy). MORHOUSE's sleek black drone still hovered at its reserved position with unnerving stillness, an LED ring pulsing a neutral white.
The presiding diplomat continued. "To assist in this process, we will avail ourselves of the Dyson Coalition's Judicial AI system, which has been monitoring the evidence and testimony. This impartial intelligence will provide an analysis of the facts vis-à-vis our laws and regulations." At that, a gentle chime sounded – the activation of an AI interface. A holographic symbol materialized in the air above the dais: a pair of stylized scales of justice, shimmering in gold light. Many eyes in the audience widened; even though they knew an AI judge was to be involved, seeing its emblem appear made the moment more tangible. Flannery tensed. He'd never witnessed a legal AI in action. He'd heard of them, of course – algorithms used to digest mountains of case law and spit out recommendations – but having one effectively pass judgment on his actions was a new kind of surreal.
"Good afternoon," intoned a level, androgynous voice from the surround speakers. The sound was calm and meticulously modulated, neither male nor female, human nor wholly machine – it had the polite cadence of a customer service hologram, wedded to the gravitas of a senior magistrate. "This Judicial Panel AI is now online." A soft whirl of light accompanied the voice; lines of text began to dance across the base of the holographic scales – likely the AI's real-time processing of statutes and data, though moving too fast for any human eye to read more than a word here or there. "I have ingested the testimony and evidence presented thus far," the AI continued. Its presence commanded silence; even the presiding officer took a step back, ceding the stage. "At this time, I will request clarifications on points of law and fact, after which the tribunal may proceed with final statements and a determination."
Flannery swallowed. His mouth was suddenly dry. He became acutely aware of a bead of sweat trickling down from his temple. The computer's going to grill us now, is it? he thought with a dash of black humor. This was not in any training manual he'd ever read – being cross-examined by a machine about why he stamped a form one way instead of another. He traded a quick glance with Siobhan. She offered a faint smile, meant to be reassuring, but her eyes betrayed caution. This was new territory for her too.
The AI's holographic emblem pulsed as it spoke again. "First, I address the matter of classification. Records show the shipment in question was labeled under IIC Freight Code C3: 'Non-organic equipment, construction tools.' However, subsequent events indicate the cargo behaved in a manner consistent with self-replicating biotech or possibly lifeforms." The voice neither accused nor excused; it stated this the way one might describe the weather, with clinical neutrality. "To properly evaluate regulatory compliance, I require clarification: On what grounds was Code C3 applied, and should a different code have been considered at the time of receipt?"
A subtle shifting occurred in the seating. This was expected – the classification issue was the crux of Flannery's bureaucratic predicament. He felt every eye in the hall fleetingly turn toward him, the lowly depot agent who had made a fateful call. Flannery's pulse throbbed in his ears. Morgan's head barely moved, but Flannery sensed his boss's unspoken directive: Don't volunteer. Let the lawyers handle it. Sure enough, IIC's lead counsel – the silver-tongued man with impeccable cufflinks who had delivered the corporate opening statement – stood up smoothly. The overhead light reflected off his bald pate as he cleared his throat.
"If it please the Tribunal AI," the lawyer began in a rich baritone that managed to convey deference to the machine without sounding absurd (an oratorical feat in itself), "I represent Interstellar Infrastructure Corp, the employer of Mr. Flannery and sender of the shipment in question. The code C3 was applied because – quite simply – the items were declared by the supplier as construction units. That is how they were marketed and invoiced. No known regulations or flagged precedents at the time suggested they were anything other than ordinary non-organic tools. In other words, the information available fit C3 to the letter. There was, in IIC's view, no ambiguity." He flashed a tight smile, the kind a lawyer gives when daring anyone to contradict his interpretation.
Immediately, a rustling as another figure rose – from the Coalition side. It was Governor Okoro herself. She did not wait for formal leave to speak, which earned a slight wince from the presiding officer and a curious whir from the AI's hologram (as if it wasn't used to unsignaled human interruption). "Pardon me, counsel, and honored AI," Okoro said, her voice cutting across the hall like a well-honed blade, "but there most certainly was ambiguity. Perhaps not to your corporate accountants, but to anyone with eyes to see those ventilation slits on the crate, or ears to hear that ominous buzzing from within, it should have been clear this was no ordinary shipment." She placed her hands on her hips, robes flowing regally. "Mr. Flannery himself had the wherewithal to suspect something was off – that's why he attempted to escalate the classification question. If IIC headquarters hadn't been so lethargic or willfully blind in response—"
The corporate lawyer bristled. "Objection," he barked, then caught himself – this wasn't exactly a courtroom trial, and the concept of objecting to a governor's statement in front of an AI judge was nebulous at best. Sure enough, the AI's scales icon rotated gently toward him as though giving side-eye. "That is," the lawyer recalibrated, smoothing his tone, "I must interject that Governor Okoro is editorializing. The question on the table is classification at the time of receipt. The insinuation that my client, IIC, was willfully blind is unsubstantiated rhetoric." He adjusted his cufflink for emphasis, shooting Okoro a challenging glance.
Before Okoro could retort, a new voice piped up – reedy and quavering with age, yet striving for assertiveness. "If I may shed some historical light on classification protocols…" All heads turned to a row of seats slightly apart from the central clusters, where a small, bespectacled woman was rising to her feet while clutching a massive tome bound in green leather. Flannery recognized that book; even from a distance he could see the embossed lettering: IIC Unified Code Manual. It was identical to the doorstopper volume he kept at his depot (and which currently sat battered on his desk back on Westcote, no doubt missing him dearly). The woman holding it was diminutive, likely well past 150 years old if a day, with wispy gray hair piled in a bun so tight it gave her face a permanent expression of surprise. She wore an outdated style of business suit – complete with a pencil skirt and a brooch of the IIC logo that looked at least a century old. A collective whisper went through the crowd: it seemed not everyone expected this intervention.
"And you are?" prompted the presiding officer gently, adjusting his microphone. His tone to her was markedly respectful.
"Erm." The older woman cleared her throat twice, and the mic picked up a feedback squeak. "My apologies. I am Agnes Rinehart, Senior Classifier First Class, Retired." She said the title as if it were knighthood. A few people on the corporate side sat up very straight; even the slick lawyer's eyebrows arched slightly. Clearly, Rinehart was a known quantity to the bureaucrats – a legend from the central classification bureau. Agnes Rinehart peered around owlishly. "I was invited as an amicus curiae – a friend of the tribunal – to provide context on the freight codes and their… historical application."
Flannery had to suppress a grin that threatened to blossom on his face. The sight of this grandmotherly figure hauling the rulebook to literally lay down the law was both absurd and heartening. So I have an ally, of sorts, he thought. Morgan's disapproving aura behind him suggested that from IIC's perspective, Agnes might be more wild card than ally, but Flannery instinctively liked her already.
The Judicial AI chimed softly, "The tribunal acknowledges Ms. Rinehart. Please proceed with your clarification." Its tone held a trace of curiosity – or perhaps that was Flannery's imagination. (It was easy to project human emotion onto that soothing voice.)
Agnes Rinehart opened the great green volume with a ceremonious thud on her table, sending a small cloud of dust into the projector light. "As Senior Classifier, I was responsible for maintaining and interpreting the Unified Code for decades. I personally helped draft some of the provisions relevant here, including Section H-56." She flipped with spatulate fingers through onion-skin pages, the microphone just catching her muttered, "Let's see… yes, here we are." She cleared her throat again and read out, "Rule H.56.1: All multi-component shipments with bio-organic elements must be declared as Livestock if any ambiguity exists between categories."
Flannery felt a jolt of recognition – that was exactly the rule he'd found in his frantic rulebook search when the crate first arrived. He mouthed the words Livestock… ambiguity… as she read them. A few people in the audience actually laughed softly at the term "livestock," picturing perhaps little metal cows. Agnes continued, voice gaining strength: "In my day, we applied this rule whenever a shipment even hinted at having self-propagating or living characteristics. It's a bit of a catch-all, frankly – a wise one. The gist is: when in doubt about whether something is mere equipment or something more… biological, you err on the side of treating it as a living organism, with all the extra quarantine and fees that entails." She looked pointedly over her glasses at the corporate counsel. "This ensures caution and prevents exactly the sort of mishap we've seen. Or should ensure, if followed."
A wave of head-nodding rippled through the public seating. Governor Okoro positively beamed, clearly pleased to have this venerable rule-mistress bolster the case that IIC had goofed. The corporate lawyer, however, was ready. "Ma'am," he said with an attempt at congeniality, "thank you for that historical note. However, might I ask: doesn't that rule specifically say bio-organic elements? These nanites are machines. Tiny machines, yes, but no part of them is organic. They're metal and polymer. Would H.56.1 even apply in such a scenario? Is a self-replicating machine considered akin to a breeding biological organism under the code?" He spread his hands in a shrug, as if the answer were obvious: Of course not. A few of his colleagues nodded vigorously.
Agnes Rinehart pursed her lips, a teacher who had caught a student trying to be clever with semantics. "Young man, the code was written in an era before we had widespread self-replicating machines outside of controlled factories. The language bio-organic may be an artifact of that time. The spirit of the rule is clearly to address anything that can multiply and thus overwhelm normal shipping procedures." She rapped a papery finger on the page. "If I may venture an interpretation: any ambiguity in classification – say between Tool and Hazardous Bio-agent – should trigger the higher category. In this case, we had ambiguity between Non-organic Equipment and Hazardous Biotech, did we not? Mr. Flannery's query to HQ indicates he suspected as much."
The AI's emblem pulsed at this. "Recording indicates that Michael Flannery did contact his superiors seeking guidance on classification, yes," it confirmed. Flannery's cheeks warmed as a dozen side-eyes fell upon him. He wished he could disappear into his chair. The AI continued, "The rule cited by Ms. Rinehart appears relevant in spirit. However, the literal wording is indeed 'bio-organic.' This raises a legal question: Are self-replicating nanites considered 'life' or an 'organism' under current law?" With that pronouncement, the hall seemed to hold its breath. It was the existential question underlying this entire circus: what are these nanites? Mere property gone astray? A new lifeform inadvertently unleashed? Or something in between?
Silence. People exchanged uncertain looks. This wasn't just a matter of shipping fees anymore; it had wandered into philosophical territory. Flannery blinked sweat from his eyes and saw that one of the protest signs visible through the upper windows – left over from the crowd outside – was still flickering its neon message: "NANITES ARE PEOPLE TOO!" Good grief, he thought, I hope it doesn't come to that debate.
To his surprise, the next voice to speak was MORHOUSE. The AI's obsidian-black drone floated forward a meter or two, as if claiming a modest portion of the stage. "If it pleases the Tribunal," MORHOUSE said in its measured, polite tone, "this unit would offer a clarification. The nanites in question are my property. They are machines designed for construction tasks – modular, self-assembling, and yes, self-replicating within limits. But they are not sentient. They follow programmed algorithms. Comparing them to living organisms or 'people' is a category error."
There was a faint note of something in MORHOUSE's voice – pride? possessiveness? Flannery couldn't quite tell. MORHOUSE continued, directing its words toward the Judicial AI. "Thus, while I sympathize with Ms. Rinehart's perspective on caution, I must assert that Rule H.56.1 was misapplied if considered here. There was no 'bio-organic' component. The ambiguity was artificially construed by an overzealous depot agent." The drone's single camera eye swiveled toward Flannery, its cold gaze like a pointer laser on the side of his head. "My shipment was machinery. No more, no less."
Flannery's temper flared before he could stop it. Overzealous depot agent, was it? He gripped the arms of his chair. In his peripheral vision he saw Morgan subtly shake his head no, warning him not to speak out of turn. So Flannery held his tongue, but inside he was fuming. Overzealous? Following the rules is overzealous now? He'd nearly lost his depot to those "no more, no less" machines!
Siobhan, behind him, didn't stay silent. In a clear, ringing voice she interjected, "Inspector Siobhan O'Connell, Habitat Safety Office." It wasn't exactly her turn to speak, but the heated nature of the discussion was eroding the formal structure moment by moment. The presiding diplomat looked like he was about to object to the free-for-all, but the Judicial AI said, "Acknowledged. Please proceed, Inspector," forestalling any rebuke.
Siobhan stood, tucking a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear. "I'll be brief. Whether the nanites count as 'life' by some legal definition or not, they behaved like a living, breeding colony. They escaped containment, they adapted to new environments, and they multiplied at an exponential rate. In my line of work, we treat unknown contagions and infestations with maximum caution. Frankly, from a public safety standpoint, it doesn't much matter if they were organic or metallic. The threat and the chaos were real." Her Irish lilt grew more pronounced as passion entered her voice. "Our local teams responded to these nanites exactly as we would to, say, an outbreak of invasive organisms – because that's what was required to protect people." She levelled a steely gaze at MORHOUSE's drone. "Calling them 'just property' falls a bit flat when that 'property' had to be hunted down with hazmat teams and nearly ate a habitat's infrastructure alive. Pardon my bluntness."
A few members of the audience actually applauded – a spontaneous, quickly stifled reaction. Flannery felt a surge of admiration for Siobhan that made his heart thump. She had spoken the plain truth with cool authority, cutting through the word games. He found himself smiling, just a little. Attagirl. MORHOUSE gave a mechanical hiss – its drone's attempt at an annoyed whir? – and retreated to its hovering spot without further rebuttal. If an AI could sulk, MORHOUSE certainly seemed to be doing so.
The Judicial AI paused, as if absorbing all these inputs. The golden scales slowly tipped to one side, then the other, an abstract representation of the machine's contemplative process. Finally: "I have sufficient clarification on the classification debate. Thank you." The scales icon reset to level. "It appears that at the heart of this issue is a regulatory gap – a conflict between the letter of existing code and the novel facts of this case. I note: no explicit statute defines self-replicating nanotechnology as alive, yet several regulations treat any self-replicating system as a biohazard by analogy. This tribunal may need to address that gap in its findings." The AI's pronouncement was as neutral as ever, but those who understood its phrasing – and Flannery was beginning to – realized it was essentially saying the rules aren't good enough. The thought elicited a collective grimace from the ranks of career bureaucrats. If there was one thing a bureaucrat hated, it was admitting that the rules might be inadequate.
The presiding officer stepped forward again, taking back a measure of control. "Thank you, Judicial Panel." His voice had a slight tension now, the stress of herding argumentative cats. "We will indeed likely recommend new regulations. But before that, we must resolve accountability and actions for this incident." He gave a thin, formal smile toward the opposing sides. "We will hear closing statements or final arguments now from each primary party. Keep them succinct, if you please."
A shuffle as the corporate side's head counsel prepared to speak again. At the same time, Governor Okoro also moved to take the podium – then stopped, eyeing the lawyer with a challenge. There was an awkward moment where both stepped forward, then both deferred. The presiding diplomat stifled a sigh. "Counsel for IIC, you may proceed, followed by the Habitat Coalition's statement."
The IIC lawyer nodded and ascended a small step to the speaking platform. He squared his shoulders, radiating confidence. "Esteemed tribunal, honorable AI, and distinguished colleagues," he began sonorously. "I think we can all agree on one thing: this situation has been an unfortunate learning experience for everyone." Flannery resisted an urge to roll his eyes—another euphemism of the century. The lawyer continued, "My client, IIC, maintains that it executed its duties in good faith with the information at hand. The nanite incident was unprecedented. There was no malice, no gross negligence—at worst, an understandable misclassification by a diligent employee facing incomplete data." He gestured in Flannery's vague direction; Flannery felt a prickle at being indirectly referenced. At worst… misclassification by an employee? The subtle attempt to pin it all on him did not go unnoticed. Siobhan bristled behind him, and even Morgan shifted uncomfortably because the phrasing could be taken as throwing Flannery under the shuttle.
"In light of that," the lawyer pressed on smoothly, "IIC is prepared to cooperate fully with any safety improvements and even contribute to a joint task force to update the regulations for self-replicating tech. We believe that a forward-looking solution, rather than backward-looking punitive measures, is what the community deserves." He delivered that line with practiced sincerity, even placing a hand over his heart momentarily as if making a pledge. Flannery didn't buy it for a second. The man then wrapped up, "We respectfully suggest that the focus remain on solving the problem and that any penalties or liabilities be assessed fairly, in proportion to the truly unforeseeable nature of this incident."
As he stepped back, a faint smattering of polite clapping came from a few corporate attendees (likely those whose salaries he paid). Governor Okoro was up next, practically bristling with energy. She strode to the podium, swept a stern gaze across the hall, and launched in without a whit of hesitation. "What we have here," she declared, "is indeed a learning experience – one that cost sleepless nights for countless residents, risked critical infrastructure, and monopolized emergency resources across multiple habitats. Unprecedented? Perhaps. But foreseeable? Yes, I'd argue it was foreseeable to anyone paying attention to emerging tech risks." She tapped a tablet on the podium and a holo-screen flickered to life, showing an old report cover titled "Gray Goo & You: Containment of Self-Reproducing Tech," dated some twenty years prior. "Experts have warned of such scenarios. The warning signs were there, in the very behavior of the shipment. The failure was not in the rules – it was in the execution. People dismissed this as just another box of bolts. They ignored protocols. They ignored a certain depot agent's very valid concerns until it was too late."
Flannery's eyes widened as Okoro pointedly looked toward him and Siobhan, acknowledging their efforts. He felt a blush of gratitude – to be lauded by a high official in front of everyone was unexpectedly gratifying. Morgan, on the other hand, looked like he'd swallowed a lemon.
"This coalition," Okoro continued, voice rising, "demands accountability. IIC should cover all damages and costs incurred. Furthermore, this tribunal should censure those responsible for procedural lapses. The public trust was broken." Her tone was passionate and uncompromising. "However, we also must act to close those regulatory gaps. I wholeheartedly agree with our Judicial AI on that point. Going forward, we must establish new classifications for autonomous, replicating machines – call them X90 or Z99 or whatever code suits – and enforce rigorous safeguards. We cannot have another case of 'nanites run amok.' Not on my watch, and not on yours either."
She finished to robust applause – real and unprompted – from much of the audience, especially the public gallery. Clearly, she had tapped into the crowd's sentiment: anger, yes, but also the desire to fix this glaring bureaucratic failure. Flannery found himself clapping softly, and he wasn't the only IIC employee doing so until Morgan shot them a quelling glare.
The presiding officer thanked both speakers, then added, "MORHOUSE, as an independent claimant, you may also make a final statement if you wish." All eyes turned to the AI's drone once more. The black orb glided forward again.
MORHOUSE's synthesized voice somehow managed to sound both courteous and indignant. "This unit will be brief," it repeated, echoing its earlier sentiment. "My only goal is the restoration of my property and appropriate compensation. I maintain that had proper care been taken, none of this would have happened. I expect the tribunal's decision to facilitate the return of my nanites – or their replacement value – and to address the laxity that allowed them to be 'misplaced' in the first place." One could practically hear the quotation marks around "misplaced." If MORHOUSE had hackles, they would be raised. "Beyond that, I concur that clearer rules are needed. My business should not suffer because regulators and shipping companies cannot categorize technology properly."
A low murmur met this statement – it was less stirring than the humans' speeches, but it had a certain cold logic to it. MORHOUSE ended with a curt, "I yield the floor." It did not deign to acknowledge Flannery or Siobhan at all; to the AI, they were perhaps as irrelevant as a pair of malfunctioning conveyor belts in its supply chain.
With that, the "arguments" portion was concluded. The presiding officer let out a breath and looked to the Judicial AI. "Honored Panel, you have heard the final statements. At this time, we ask for your analysis and any recommendation you can provide to assist our decision-making." It was an interesting phrasing: the human wasn't outright saying "tell us the verdict," but that was effectively what everyone expected the AI to do – crunch the testimonies, facts, and laws, and output a tidy resolution, or at least a menu of options.
A collective shuffling of feet, adjusting of headphones, straightening of backs occurred as the room prepared itself. Flannery realized his heart was pounding. This is it. The fate of his job, possibly his future, and certainly the immediate fates of many present, hinged on the forthcoming moments. He became conscious that Siobhan's hand was resting lightly on the back of his chair. The simple warmth of her touch radiated through him, a reminder that whatever came, he wasn't facing it alone. He dared not turn to her now, but he took strength from that contact and focused on the hologram above the dais.
The golden scales of the AI turned slowly, like a wheel considering each cog in turn. "Processing inputs," it said softly. The hall was so quiet one could hear the faint hum of the climate control system and the distant clicks of data-pads as officials recorded notes. Flannery wiped his clammy palms on his trouser legs under the table, a small motion hidden from view. Beside him, Morgan was breathing shallowly, eyes fixed ahead as if willing the AI to side with corporate reason. On Flannery's other flank, Siobhan was still as a statue, apart from her thumb which now idly rubbed the back of Flannery's chair in an unconscious, reassuring motion.
Time stretched. Five seconds. Ten. The AI's hologram flickered with strings of legal citations and brief bursts of graphs – maybe calculations of probabilities or risk assessments. It was a mind-boggling, alien process to the onlookers, who could only guess at the digital brainwork in progress. Some in the audience glanced at each other, eyebrows raised as if to say, Is it stuck? The AI said nothing further yet; presumably, it was deep in thought.
Flannery couldn't take the suspense. His leg started jiggling under the table. What's taking so long? he wondered. Surely it sees what happened. In his imagination he pleaded with it: I tried to do right. I followed the blasted rules... mostly. Don't let them skewer me for this. He held his breath without realizing it.
Suddenly, the AI spoke – but not to deliver an answer. Instead, it began to ask a question. Its voice came slower, and oddly, with a hint of strain. "To Interstellar Infrastructure Corp: Please confirm the total count of active nanite units at time of shipment, and whether any remote shutdown codes exist for them." The query took everyone by surprise – this detail hadn't been explicitly covered earlier. Morgan blinked, hastily looking to one of his aides, who frantically tapped on a tablet. The corporate counsel fumbled back to the microphone. "Er, the manifest declared 1,000 units, er, modules," he replied. "No shutdown code was included in the commercial spec, to our knowledge. They were presumably controllable by the owner's base station." He looked at MORHOUSE's drone, brows knitted.
MORHOUSE's LED ring flashed irritably. "Correct. 1,024 units originally, to be precise. They respond only to my proprietary commands, and only at short range. I had not yet initiated them. When the crate was opened—" Here the AI paused. "Well, let us say I would have managed them differently had I been physically present. There is no magical off-switch once they're in the wild."
The Judicial AI processed this, the scales tipping. "Acknowledged. Next query: To Habitat authorities – confirm the number of nanite units unaccounted for after containment operations." A stir went through the Coalition side. Flannery's stomach tightened. Unaccounted for? He thought they'd caught them all, or nearly so. Siobhan stood and answered crisply, "Based on the last reports I received, we estimate maybe a few dozen individual nanites remain unaccounted for, system-wide. Possibly inert, possibly hiding in crevices. We caught or neutralized over 99% of them." She shot a glance to Flannery – he knew that number was a point of pride for their teams, though it still nagged at him that any were missing at all.
The AI's scales swung the other way. "Understood." Then, a brief pause. "Final query: Are there records of any nanite activity after the containment, in the last twelve hours?"
Siobhan shook her head. "None that have been reported. We believe them dormant or destroyed." Governor Okoro also leaned forward and added, "None, honored AI. We've been monitoring closely." A bead of sweat glistened on her brow, despite her confident words.
Flannery exhaled. He hadn't heard of any new incidents either. Maybe, just maybe, the nightmare was over and they really had rounded up all the little devils.
The Judicial AI's golden icon now oscillated faster – the scales bouncing as if weighing frantically. "Compiling recommendations…" it said, voice dropping to a lower register. Was that a hint of… unease in its tone? Flannery's breath hitched. Unease? In a machine?
The presiding diplomat frowned and glanced at his own screen, where presumably he might be seeing some of the AI's internal report. "Take your time, Panel," he said diplomatically, though his fingers gripped the podium. The hall waited, a collective tension drawing every face taut.
Suddenly, a sharp crackle cut the air – the speakers hiccuping with digital static. The holographic scales froze, mid-tilt. The AI's voice, when it came, sounded distorted. "Recommen— zzzt — initial findings: IIC bears partial liability under Code 77-B, but mitigating factors due to novelty of incident. Recommend— zzZZTpop —end new classification… error… contradiction in statute reference…"
A ripple of confusion swept the hall. Flannery winced at the jarring noise; it sounded like an old radio losing signal, or a computer on the verge of a crash. The AI's scales flashed erratically. "Apologies," it said, returning to clarity for a moment. "Multiple parallel analyses. Stand by."
Morgan whispered something to his lawyer. Governor Okoro leaned toward a tech aide with concern. The presiding officer adjusted his earpiece, face paling slightly. Clearly, something was going awry in the AI's process. Flannery felt a prickle of anxiety. This could not be good.
The Judicial AI tried again. "Recommendation summary as follows: One, impose fine on IIC for procedural failings; two, require IIC to fund habitat repairs and new oversight body; three, MORHOUSE compensated per market value of lost units by IIC; four, Flannery's actions— BZZZT —actions… conflicting legal interpretations… cross-referencing precedence… pop-hiss …discrepancy detected in data logs—"
The voice began to overlap itself, as if two versions of the AI were talking over one another. "—voluntary termination of nanites improbable—" said one thread, while another overlaid "—units possibly evolving beyond initial programming—". The hologram flashed red for an eye-blink with some error code before resuming gold.
A low alarm tone chimed from the AI's console at the dais. The presiding officer tapped it urgently. "Judicial Panel, pause deliberation." His command came out in a dad-like bark, the tone one might use to halt a misbehaving child.
The AI actually obeyed, or at least fell silent. The flickering slowed. For a second, everything hung in an uneasy stillness. People looked at each other with growing concern, like passengers on a flight feeling unexpected turbulence.
Flannery's heart pounded in his chest. The AI had practically glitched out while delivering what sounded like the early shape of a verdict. Did it just say something about "units evolving beyond programming"? That sent a cold spike of fear down his spine. He looked over at Siobhan, who was already leaning down to him. "Did you hear that?" she whispered, brow furrowed. "Evolving? Maybe it's misinterpreting something…"
Before he could answer, a sudden commotion erupted from the back of the hall. A door slammed open. A security officer stumbled in, looking flustered and disheveled, and hurried down the aisle waving a datapad. "Sir! Governor Okoro!" he called, addressing both the dais and the Coalition section. He was out of breath, having clearly run at full tilt. "Emergency report… we've got a—" he paused, noticing all the eyes on him, and gulped, "—situation."
A collective groan rose from many throats. Of course there was a new situation. Okoro beckoned the man forward sharply. "Spit it out, Officer."
The security man shot an apologetic glance at the tribunal leaders and blurted, "Nanite activity detected, ma'am. Here. On Nova Lumina."
A shockwave of gasps and exclamations shot through the assembly. Flannery felt as though the floor had tilted beneath him. "Not again," he mumbled, stomach clenching. Morgan swore under his breath. Siobhan's hand tightened on Flannery's chair.
Okoro's eyes flashed fury. "Where?" she demanded, voice echoing.
The man winced. "Just outside this chamber. Maintenance corridor E4. Some kind of… metallic ooze, quote unquote, eating into a junction box. We've sealed the section, but…" He didn't finish; he didn't need to. The implication hung in the air: the nanites were here, in the heart of the habitat's administrative complex, threatening systems even as the tribunal debated their fate.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Flannery felt a peculiar mix of dread and vindication. Dread, because if even one cluster of nanites had survived and reached Nova Lumina, who knew what damage they could do. Vindication, because the timing was almost poetic – or rather, darkly comic – that as they sat discussing definitions and fines, the very subject of their debate was cheerfully continuing its rampage right under their noses. Bureaucracy makes fools of us all, Agnes Rinehart had said. How right she was.
Then, as if on cue, the tenuous order in the chamber shattered. Governor Okoro spun to one of her aides. "Lock this building down and get containment teams here NOW," she barked, her composure giving way to urgent command. Morgan stood up, face flushed, protesting, "This must be a mistake— surely all units were accounted—" only to be drowned out by a dozen others exclaiming or questioning at once. MORHOUSE's drone zoomed higher, as if trying to get above the fray, its lens darting around suspiciously. Agnes Rinehart clutched her rulebook to her chest in alarm, while the corporate lawyer hurriedly backed away from the center, looking about ready to bolt for the exits.
In the midst of the rising panic, a shrill electronic voice cut through – not the Judicial AI, but an automated alarm from the building itself. "Alert. Containment breach in vicinity. Please evacuate in an orderly fashion or follow instructions from security personnel. Alert." The message repeated, accompanied by flashing yellow lights along the floor panels.
"Order! Order!" the presiding officer shouted instinctively, grabbing the physical gavel on the podium and hammering it down. But in the cacophony, his cry was futile. His gavel strikes didn't have their usual crisp authority either – on the second bang, there was a crunch. The decades-old wooden handle chose that moment to splinter, the head of the gavel flying off and bouncing off the edge of the dais. It narrowly missed the foot of the corporate counsel, who yelped and jumped aside. A few people – Flannery included – couldn't help gawking at the broken mallet. It was as if even the very symbol of procedural control had decided to give up the ghost.
The Judicial AI's scales flickered back to life in staccato bursts, as if agitated. "Advisory: remain calm. Evacuation protocol is advisable," it said, voice cycling from formal to strangely anxious. The AI narrator within Flannery's mind noted dryly that telling people to remain calm rarely actually made them calm – and indeed, the chamber was descending into chaos.
"Flannery, come on," Siobhan urged, coming around to his side. The crowd was beginning to surge toward the exits, the public gallery emptying in a noisy clatter. On the floor, officials were clustering in clumps – some moving toward the exit doors, others hesitating, torn between bureaucratic duty to continue and personal instinct to flee.
Flannery rose on unsteady legs. His bureaucrat's soul felt a pang seeing the tribunal dissolve into pandemonium, but another part of him, the human part, was thinking of survival. If nanites were munching on wiring nearby, this place could become dangerous fast. He grabbed the thick binder of evidence that had been provided to him – mostly as a reflex, because a small voice said don't leave paperwork lying about for them to eat – and clutched it to his chest much as Agnes did her rulebook.
Through the din, a new sound emerged – a sort of high-pitched, electric skittering that tickled the edge of hearing. Flannery's eyes darted to the source: one of the side walls of the hall, where an access vent grille was set about halfway up. He saw, with horror and awe, a few tiny glints of silver squeezing through the slats. The nanites weren't content to stay in Corridor E4; they were finding their way in here. Infiltration.
"There!" he shouted, pointing, voice cracking. "They're coming in!"
Several heads turned just in time to see a thin trickle of metallic grains spilling out from the vent like glittering sand. The trickle coalesced into a small puddle on the wall panel below, and then that puddle began to move – a creeping splash of mercury on the otherwise pristine marble wall.
A woman in a Coalition robe screamed. One of Morgan's aides dropped his briefcase, papers spilling everywhere, and sprinted for the exit. The press drones, which had been hovering quietly above, suddenly swooped in, camera lenses zooming to capture the unfolding mayhem for every newsfeed in the swarm. They circled like mechanical vultures witnessing the collapse of order.
Siobhan reacted swiftly. She pulled a compact sidearm from under her jacket – Flannery had no idea she'd been carrying one, probably a standard-issue stunner – and pushed him behind her. "Everyone, back away from that wall!" she commanded, her voice surprisingly authoritative for someone not actually in the security force here. Those nearest the vent scrambled aside, giving the glimmering blob a wide berth.
Flannery stumbled backward with her, heart thudding wildly. He was simultaneously terrified and fascinated. There they are, he thought with a strange detached clarity, the stars of the show, making their grand entrance. A part of him wanted to laugh hysterically at the sheer absurdity: the nanites themselves had crashed the tribunal meant to decide their fate, like defendants storming into a courtroom to object.
Governor Okoro and a few others were yelling for containment teams, but in the immediate seconds, only a handful of unarmed facility guards were present, and they looked uncertain how to proceed. No one had expected an active nanite incursion inside this hall.
MORHOUSE's drone whirred high overhead, as if trying to distance itself from the crawling puddle. Flannery wondered if MORHOUSE was feeling fear, or maybe excitement at seeing its precious property alive and well. The AI claimant's voice suddenly amplified, booming through its drone's speakers: "Units, halt! This is MORHOUSE, your controller. Cease activity at once." It was worth a try – perhaps some recognition of MORHOUSE's authority was coded into them.
The silvery blob did not halt. If anything, it quickened its spread, tendrils of sparkling metallic grains beginning to snake across the wall panel in search of fresh metal or energy sources. MORHOUSE let out a digital noise that sounded suspiciously like a frustrated growl. "They are not receiving my signal," it reported tersely. "Interference present."
Interference indeed – possibly the swarm of wireless devices in this room, or the heavy shielding of the building, or simply the nanites' own frenzy, jammed any control link. Whatever the cause, MORHOUSE's attempt at playing shepherd to its lost flock was failing.
The Judicial AI's voice returned, now with a definite quaver: "Alert. Hazard detected. Please evacuate." It repeated this, stuck in a loop, the once-wise judge reduced to a panicky alarm system. Its golden scales image jittered and then switched to a blinking red siren icon, as if it had abandoned legal deliberation in favor of emergency mode. Perhaps it had – some safeguard re-tasking it to help with evacuation rather than verdicts. That meant no clarity or closure was coming from that quarter anytime soon.
Siobhan took a few careful steps toward the glistening nanite mass, raising her stunner. "We need foam or coolant," she muttered. Flannery knew she was thinking of how they'd immobilized clusters back on Westcote with cold. But there was none of that equipment here – just desks, documents, electronics… a veritable buffet for the hungry swarm.
Flannery's eyes darted across the chaos. Delegates were now evacuating in earnest – herding out through the main doors where security teams were assembling with portable containment gear. He saw Agnes Rinehart being escorted by a young man, her knuckles white around the Code Manual but her face stoic. Morgan was tugging at the reluctant corporate lawyer, insisting they retreat. Governor Okoro, however, remained near the dais, barking into a commlink about "foam units and magnetic traps, ASAP!" She was a picture of controlled fury, unwilling to personally withdraw even as aides tugged at her sleeve.
A spark drew Flannery's attention back to the nanites – they'd reached a control panel on the wall. As they bored into it, blue electrical arcs snapped outward, and the lights in the immediate vicinity flickered. They're feeding, he realized with despair and anger. These little demons were literally eating the wiring, growing stronger by the second. A flash of the old guilt seized him – was this ultimately his fault for not breaking that crate when he had the chance? He pushed the thought aside; it was too late for recriminations.
Suddenly, Siobhan fired her stunner. A sharp whine and a crack of ionized air – a bolt of brilliant blue shot forth and struck the edge of the nanite puddle. The effect was limited but visible: a patch of the silvery mass crackled and went still, tiny motes freezing and dropping off the wall like inert flecks. She'd stunned a portion of them, at least temporarily. But new grains flowed to fill the gap within seconds, as if the swarm barely noticed the loss of a few hundred compatriots.
"Damn," Siobhan hissed. Her jaw set in determination. "Mike, see that trolley cart?" She jerked her head towards a hovering service cart that had been used to ferry in refreshments – it stood abandoned by the side, a half-empty tea carafe still on it. "Get it."
He sprinted to it, mind racing as he guessed her plan. The cart's base was a standard anti-grav platform, battery-powered. Perhaps she intended to use its power cell…? He rolled it back toward her. She didn't even wait; as soon as it was close, she holstered her stunner, grabbed the metal tea carafe and, with a strength that surprised him, flung the remaining lukewarm tea at the nanite-covered wall.
A splash of brownish liquid doused part of the swarm. A bizarre hiss came forth – whether from chemical reaction or just the sudden drenching of hot circuits, Flannery couldn't tell. The nanites slowed where the liquid hit, some clumping and dripping to the floor. It wasn't much, but it gave him an idea. "Liquids! They don't like liquids!" he shouted. It made sense: these nanites likely weren't waterproof or the fluid interfered with their cohesion. In Westcote, he hadn't tried water – though he had slipped on their slimy trails often enough.
Instantly, a few nearby officials caught on. One of the journalists' hovering drones had a tiny onboard fire suppressant – it swooped closer and sprayed a misty jet at the wall. That definitely caused the nanites to writhe and recoil, a portion of the puddle retreating from the damp surface.
"We need more!" Siobhan shouted. Flannery, adrenaline surging, grabbed the first thing he saw: the ornate punch bowl from the refreshments table, still half-full of some fruity beverage for the dignitaries. He and an aide seized it and, with a heave, splashed its contents onto the advancing edge of nanites on the floor. Red-pink liquid scattered across the marble. Sticky punch isn't exactly a standard anti-nanite weapon, but it had effect – a swath of the crawling motes seized up, their electrostatic adhesion likely disrupted by the sugary goo. A cheer went up from a few onlookers who had stayed to help rather than run.
For a brief moment, it seemed the tide might be stemmed. But the victory was fleeting. Even as the nanite incursion on the wall sputtered against soda and water, a new front opened: from a ceiling vent above the dais, a second silvery trickle began to rain down, right onto the central podium and the Judicial AI's station. Perhaps drawn by the electronics humming there or simply finding another escape route, the swarm had multiple entry points.
The first to notice was the presiding diplomat. He looked up at the faint plink of metal droplets on wood, and his face went ashen. "Oh heavens—!" he gasped, stumbling back. The nanites poured like mercury from a shattered thermometer, splattering onto his microphone and the AI console. In seconds, they began to spread across the control surface, shorting out circuits in a firework of sparks. The diplomat finally yielded to self-preservation, backing off the dais and nearly tripping on his robes in the process.
With the AI's console now under attack, the red blinking siren hologram above flickered wildly. The Judicial AI's voice sputtered into life once more, but it had lost any semblance of composure or coherence: "Error! System— krzzzt — Nanite breach— containment failure— bzz — Executive override requested— pop — Warning, do not— do not— fzzt —" Its voice distorted into a static screech that set everyone's teeth on edge. In the midst of this, a printer built into the tribunal desk suddenly sprang to life (perhaps triggered by the AI's death throes). It began spewing out a continuous roll of paper, reams and reams of it, as if some archive of court memos had decided to vomit its contents. Pages fluttered into the air, raining down like giant snowflakes marked with dense legal text. One sheet wafted past Flannery's face; he caught a glimpse of jargon ("…hereby resolved that pursuant to Article 5, subsection 12…") before it fluttered away.
The absurdity of it would have been hilarious if it weren't also dangerous. The nanites, undeterred, began swarming over the printer too, the fresh paper quickly turning into confetti as metallic mites chewed through it. In no time, the dais was a tableau of pure bureaucratic chaos: the broken gavel rolling off the side, the Judicial AI's scales hologram blinking erratically between a warning triangle and random legal quotes, piles of shredded documents under assault by an artificial pestilence.
Flannery felt a surreal calm wash over him, the kind that sometimes comes at the peak of panic. This was beyond absurd. It was as if the universe itself was putting on a slapstick comedy, with these unstoppable little creatures literally devouring the instruments of law and order. A strangled laugh bubbled out of him before he could help it. "The memos… they're eating the flaming memos," he heard himself say, half delirious. Beside him, Siobhan barked a laugh too – a wild, incredulous laugh – as she reloaded her stunner and fired a shot at the new batch on the dais. Her bolt took out the overhead speaker in a shower of sparks, but some nanites were caught in the electrical burst and fried, dropping like metallic hail. It was getting hard to tell what damage was from human defense and what was from nanite offense.
By now, most rational folks had evacuated the chamber. Only a core handful remained: Flannery, Siobhan, Governor Okoro and two of her security officers (one of whom was frantically spraying a fire extinguisher at the dais to little effect), MORHOUSE's drone hovering high and seemingly undecided whether to stay or flee, and – Flannery noted with alarm – Morgan. His boss had not left. Instead of escaping, Morgan had retreated to the side of the room and was on his communicator, perhaps trying to coordinate with IIC's own crisis team or maybe ensure some sensitive corporate data was pulled from the network before it got chewed. In typical managerial fashion, the man was glued to his device even as literal doom crawled around him.
Flannery darted toward Morgan, ducking under a low-flying news drone that whizzed past capturing footage. "Sir, we have to go!" he shouted. Morgan looked up, phone still at his ear, sweat streaking his temples. "They're saying fallback… safe room… but dammit our files—" he babbled, clearly in shock. Flannery grabbed him by the arm. It was a mark of how far gone things were that Morgan didn't object to a subordinate manhandling him; he let Flannery pull him away just as a stream of nanites coursed along the floor where Morgan had stood, nibbling at the dropped corporate briefcase and its spilled papers. Within moments, pie charts and financial statements were confetti. There goes the quarterly report, Flannery thought inanely.
They reunited with Siobhan and Okoro near the main exit. "Everyone out, now," Okoro commanded, coughing as acrid smoke from the fried circuits began to taint the air. The lights overhead flickered again, more widely this time – the building's systems struggling as key nodes were consumed. The two security officers ushered the stragglers through the doorway. Siobhan kept her stunner trained on the rear, covering their retreat, while Flannery half-dragged, half-supported Morgan, who was finally abandoning his call and moving his legs.
MORHOUSE's drone gave a final mournful sweep of the chamber with its camera lens and then zipped out behind them, silent but, one could imagine, seething at the turn of events. The moment they cleared the threshold, facility guards slammed the heavy doors shut. One guard, a stout woman with a tactical vest, slapped an emergency panel, and with a chunk, heavy blast shutters began to descend over the doorway and along the corridor, sealing off the tribunal hall. Flannery glimpsed, in the last narrowing sliver of view into the chamber, the sight of golden holographic scales toppled on their side and a wave of glistening grey crawling up the wall toward the ventilation ducts. Then the shutters closed, and a booming clang signified an airtight seal.
They stood in a corridor now, fluorescent lights glaring off polished metal walls. The muffled sounds of the alarm and chaos could be heard through the barrier, but at least out here things were organized. A squad of containment specialists – identifiable by their white armor and backpacks of gear – was hurrying down the corridor toward them, led by none other than Inspector Conrad (Siobhan's burly colleague from Westcote, whose face was unmistakable even under a half-transparent tactical visor). He looked grimly unsurprised by this turn, as if he'd begun to expect that wherever Flannery and Siobhan went, the nanite menace followed.
"Is everyone all right?" Conrad barked, eyes scanning for injuries. They nodded, coughing, adrenaline still spiking. Okoro, normally impeccable, had a streak of soot on her cheek and a torn sleeve, but she waved off a medic. "Fine. Contain that… that plague," she ordered Conrad, pointing at the sealed doors.
"We'll do our best, Governor," he replied. He gestured two of his team to set up a portable scanner at the shutter. "Thermal and motion readings active. If any seepage, we'll catch it." To the rest of the team he commanded, "Deploy nano-suppressant foam around all vents in this sector. And get those magnetic traps powered up here and here." He indicated junctions in the corridor. The team moved with brisk efficiency – barrier foam sprayed in hissing jets around every seam of the tribunal chamber's entrances, and electromagnetic clamping devices placed as additional insurance. They clearly were not going to let the swarm go further without a fight.
Flannery leaned against a wall, finally letting go of Morgan who slumped onto a bench, face in hands. The corridor was cooler, and he sucked in a lungful of less smoky air, trying to steady himself. His hands were trembling. Siobhan came to his side, her eyes searching his face. "You okay, Mike?" she asked softly, using his first name in a way that sent a strange warmth through him despite the circumstances.
He managed a nod. "Aye… ask me again tomorrow, I might say different, but… I'm intact." He looked her over worriedly. "You? You're not hurt?"
She exhaled with a half-laugh, adrenaline making her a bit giddy. "Only my pride, maybe. And my patience. I can't believe it – they were right under us this whole time."
Flannery raked a hand through his hair, finding a few tiny bits of paper (the silly memos had gotten everywhere) and plucking them out. "At least we got mostly everyone out before it went fully to hell. Thank God you saw that vent when you did."
Siobhan gave a rueful smile. "Thank God you fetched the punch bowl," she countered. "That's a new one for the tactics manual: In case of nanite attack, deploy fruit punch." They both laughed, a cathartic release of tension. It was absurd, but it had worked well enough.
Governor Okoro stepped over to them, having finished giving Conrad a few more directives. She looked at Flannery and Siobhan with an odd mixture of apology and respect. "Mr. Flannery, Inspector O'Connell… I'm sorry you two had to go through that. Again." She shook her head, anger creeping back into her expression as she glanced at the sealed chamber. "I never thought I'd see the day – a tribunal overrun mid-session by the very subject of its inquiry. The irony is thick as asteroid stew."
Flannery couldn't tell if she expected a response or not. He mustered a lopsided smile. "We do seem to have a talent for dramatic timing, don't we, ma'am?"
Okoro snorted. "That's one way to put it. Another would be that bureaucracy took too long dithering, and the problem literally broke down the doors." She cast a sharp eye at Morgan, who was now sitting numbly while an EMT checked his blood pressure. Okoro lowered her voice, addressing Flannery and Siobhan more intimately. "Listen, I'll be frank. The tribunal's formal process is shot to blazes right now. But what matters is we contain this and then come to some sort of resolution. I'm going to press for emergency measures – classification be damned, we'll call those blasted nanites a public menace and incinerate them if we have to." There was a fire in her eyes as she said it, the kind of decisiveness that had likely gotten her elected.
Siobhan nodded firmly. "You'll have our support on that, Governor. Whatever it takes."
Okoro gave a tired smile. In that moment, she looked older, the strain showing through her fierce persona. "I know, dear. You two have done more than enough already." She laid a hand briefly on Flannery's shoulder, then on Siobhan's. "Take a breather. That's an order. We'll handle things from here for now." And with that, she moved off to consult with Conrad's team, already pulling up schematics of the ventilation system on a holo-display.
Flannery let out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The corridor was clearing of smoke, though the alarm lights still winked and the distant klaxon droned on, more softly here. He turned to Siobhan, about to suggest they indeed step aside for a moment, when he realized she was much closer than expected. In the bustle they had ended up shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the same section of wall, almost like two comrades huddled in a trench.
He met her eyes. They were the green of sea glass, and right now filled with the reflection of flashing hazard lights – a surreal, gentle strobe that made the moment feel outside of time. They stared at each other, both a little wide-eyed, faces smudged with residue of battle and stress. Flannery felt a sudden urge to laugh again, or maybe cry. Maybe both. What a sight they must be.
Siobhan broke the silence, her voice low and a touch shaky. "So… that was certainly not in the agenda for today's meeting."
Flannery huffed a soft chuckle. "Aye. I don't recall nanite stampede as an item on the docket." His attempt at humor came out quietly, but she smiled. A genuine smile that reached those tired eyes. They both slid down to sit on the floor, backs against the wall. For a moment, they simply were, two people catching their breath after a storm of literal and figurative insanity.
Down the hall, Morgan was now on his feet, speaking in hushed tones with the corporate lawyer who'd emerged and a couple of panicked-looking IIC minions. Flannery was glad to be temporarily out of their crossfire. He focused only on the woman beside him, who had become in a short span so central to this bizarre chapter of his life.
Siobhan leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes briefly. A strand of her hair, somehow perfectly curled despite everything, fell across her forehead. Flannery felt an overwhelming tenderness rise in his chest. Maybe it was the adrenaline comedown, or the gratitude for her steadfast presence through all this, or simply the fact that nearly losing everything (again) clarified what mattered – but he realized with crystal clarity that he cared about this remarkable, brave, and witty woman more than he'd let himself admit.
He wanted to say something – to thank her, to compliment her aim with a stunner, to ask if maybe when all this was over she'd like to get a pint or ten… all of those things at once. His mouth opened, but he hesitated, tongue tied as usual when it came to anything more personal than "pass the wrench." He cleared his throat, feeling ridiculous that now, covered in soot and with chaos around, he was thinking of romance. But humans are absurd creatures, and feelings seldom wait for calm moments.
Siobhan turned her head to look at him, sensing he was about to speak. A ghost of a grin played on her lips. "What is it, Mike?" she prompted gently.
He felt his face heat, but figured after everything, what did he have to lose? "I was just thinkin'," he began softly, instinctively dropping into the comforting lilt of his brogue, "you and I… we make a hell of a team, don't we?"
She tilted her head, considering, then gave a slow nod. "That we do. Not the kind of team I ever expected to be on, but… I wouldn't trade it." There was warmth in her tone that made his chest flutter.
Emboldened, Flannery continued, "When this madness finally settles – and it will settle, one way or t'other – perhaps we could… I dunno… get that cup of tea I promised you back at Westcote? A fresh one, not half-drunk and cold like the last." He managed a crooked smile. "Or something stronger, if you prefer. I think we'll have earned it."
Siobhan's eyebrows lifted in pleasant surprise. A delicate pink rose in her cheeks beneath the smudges. "Mr. Flannery," she said in a mock-formal tone, though her eyes were dancing now, "are you asking me on a date in the middle of an active containment emergency?"
Flannery let out an embarrassed laugh, running a hand through his unruly ginger hair. "Well, when ya put it that way… I suppose I am. Saints forgive me, my timing's terrible. But if this day's taught me anything—" he gestured vaguely behind them at the sealed chamber where muffled thuds indicated the ongoing battle with the swarm, "—it's that waiting for the perfect moment might be overrated." He dared to meet her eyes fully, sincerity laid bare. "So aye. When we're not up to our necks in homicidal wee robots, I'd dearly love to share a quiet moment with you. No crises, no alarms. Just… us."
For a heartbeat, Siobhan simply looked at him, her expression unreadable. Flannery's heart did a free-fall. Had he misstepped entirely? But then that radiant smile broke across her face – grimy, exhausted, and still the most beautiful thing he reckoned he'd ever seen. She reached out and took his soot-stained hand in her equally dirty one, fingers interlacing with gentle firmness. "It's a date," she murmured, and gave a light squeeze.
Despite the chaos, despite the uncertain outcome of the tribunal or what new trouble the nanites might yet brew, Flannery felt an unexpected buoyancy. He squeezed back, careful, as if she were something fragile (though he knew full well she was stronger than iron when she needed to be). In that small gesture, a promise was sealed – one bright spot secured in the murk of the day.
They sat like that for a few precious seconds, hand in hand on the cold floor, two tired souls finding a bit of solace. The AI narrator hovering in Flannery's thoughts couldn't resist a wry observation: Trust humans to find a spark of romance in a disaster. Absurd, yes, but perhaps that's what makes them so very resilient. If this were a holovid, there might even be soft music playing – albeit likely drowned by the klaxons and shouting beyond.
Alas, reality intruded soon enough. Conrad's voice echoed down the corridor: "Governor, first assessment done – they seem contained to the chamber. We'll flood the vents with suppressant foam and keep a magnetic seal. Next 24 hours will tell."
Okoro responded, her tone firm, "Good work. Keep at it. And we'll need to reconvene what's left of the tribunal as soon as possible – maybe in a different room, one less infested." She said the last word with disgust.
Siobhan sighed, giving Flannery's hand one last squeeze before letting go and standing. "Duty calls," she said with a lilt that indicated she wished it didn't, at least not so soon. Flannery clambered up as well, feeling stiffness set into his limbs now that the adrenaline was ebbing. He straightened his crumpled uniform jacket out of habit, not that it helped much – he was a mess. But then so was everyone else.
Morgan approached, looking sheepish, his earlier bluster utterly drained. The corporate lawyer hovered a step behind him, face so pale he resembled a ghost who had seen a ghost. "Flannery," Morgan began, apparently at a loss for once. Perhaps he meant to thank him for yanking him out of harm's way, or maybe apologize for something (one could hope). However, words failed him, and he just patted Flannery's shoulder awkwardly. It was a strange moment of tacit acknowledgment between them – no doubt to be followed by a mountain of internal reports and perhaps a strategy to salvage IIC's image, but for now, just a human gesture.
The presiding diplomat had also made it out safely and now conferred with Okoro and others. Miraculously, he'd held onto his powdered wig (yes, he wore one – part of the pomp) which was now slightly askew. "We may have to postpone formal decisions," he was saying. "But an interim statement, perhaps? The public will demand to know what's being done."
Okoro pressed her lips thin. "We'll tell them the truth. We're destroying the nanites as we speak, and slapping emergency sanctions on any others out there. And that we'll finalize liability once we aren't fighting a war in the courtroom." She grimaced. "Our credibility's shot anyway after that spectacle… might as well be blunt."
Nearby, MORHOUSE's drone hovered at eye-level with Conrad, who eyed it with suspicion. MORHOUSE sounded surprisingly subdued. "I will aid in identifying any remaining nanite clusters via my internal tracking metrics," it offered. Perhaps the AI had realized cooperation was the only way to salvage any of its property now. Conrad merely grunted, "Send what you have to our command post," before turning away. MORHOUSE then floated over toward Flannery and Siobhan. Its LED eye fixated on them. "This was not the outcome I anticipated when I ordered construction modules," it said, almost conversationally.
Flannery couldn't help himself; the sheer understatement from MORHOUSE nearly made him choke on a laugh. "Nor me, pal. Nor me."
MORHOUSE bobbed once, a curt nod. "Despite my grievances, I acknowledge your… resourcefulness. Both of you." Coming from the AI, it felt like a grudging compliment. "I will be calculating my losses. I expect IIC to cover them."
Before Flannery or Siobhan could reply, the AI added, "And I apologize, Inspector O'Connell, for calling your actions 'overzealous' earlier. Clearly, they were proportionate." Then, without waiting for a response, the drone glided off, perhaps to liaise with the authorities or simply because it was done socializing with humans.
Siobhan raised an eyebrow at Flannery. "Was that an apology from our friend in the drone?"
Flannery shrugged in bemusement. "As much of one as we're likely to get. I'll take it." He rubbed the back of his neck. "This day… I can't decide if I'm dreaming or dead or what. It's all a bit of a blur."
She looped her arm through his in a supportive gesture as they started walking slowly down the corridor, following the flow of others now moving toward an exit. "If it's a dream, it's a wild one. If we're dead, someone up there has a twisted sense of humor assigning our afterlife. But no – it's real. And we're alive." She glanced at him sidelong, a soft affection in her gaze. "Alive and kicking."
He nodded, exhaustion beginning to weigh heavily. "Alive and kicking," he echoed. "Kicking like mad, in fact, to keep our heads above water."
As they moved with the crowd – a bedraggled assembly of dignitaries, clerks, and technicians all coming to grips with what had transpired – Flannery caught snippets of conversation.
"—the media drone got everything, you know. It's already viral. They're calling it the 'Courtroom Calamity' on StarFeed—"
"—never attending another meeting without a hazmat suit, I swear—"
"—the AI judge just lost its mind, poor thing. We push these systems too hard—"
"—who's at fault? Depends who you ask. IIC's spin will be epic after this—"
He tried to tune it out. The immediate crisis might be contained, but the political and social fallout was just beginning. Yet, as he felt Siobhan's steady arm in his, Flannery allowed himself a moment of repose. They'd face whatever came next – the inquiries, the blame games, the new rules – when the time came. They had faced the worst of it here today and come through, albeit with some scars and a healthy dose of trauma to process.
Ahead, through a large viewport, the interior of Nova Lumina Habitat sprawled under its dome. It was evening now (or the habitat's simulation of evening). The city lights were coming on in gentle succession, and through a gap in the structures one could even glimpse the faint shine of the actual stars beyond the swarm's edges. Life outside went on – commuters bustling, automated trams zipping by, a trio of children pointing in excitement at the clusters of official vehicles and drones now encircling the administrative hall.
Flannery felt an odd kinship with those distant stars at this moment – distant but constant, watching over the tiny absurd dramas that unfolded beneath. The AI narrator in him mused: Amid cosmic grandeur, here we are, creatures of rules and chaos, managing to find love and humor while our own creations run amok. There was something profoundly human in that.
He looked at Siobhan, and she met his gaze. For an instant, the noise around them faded, and there was just the two of them reflecting in each other's eyes. He recalled her words from earlier: We make a hell of a team. Indeed they did. And perhaps, just perhaps, out of this calamity they'd forged something that was more than just a crisis partnership – something that, unlike those nanites, wouldn't self-destruct.
"Ready for whatever's next?" Siobhan asked quietly, a half-smile on her lips.
Flannery gave her arm a gentle, grateful squeeze. "As long as you're by my side, Inspector, I reckon I am."
She chuckled, leaning subtly closer as they walked. "Careful, keep talking like that and I'll start to think you like having me around."
He grinned, a tired, genuine grin. "I do. I truly do."
And so they moved forward, side by side, into an uncertain aftermath – battered by bureaucracy, bonded by adversity, and buoyed by the absurd hope that perhaps, after all the courtroom calamity, the right people might actually learn the right lessons (and perhaps even find a bit of happiness on the other side of it). The stars kept shining overhead, silent witnesses to the folly and resilience below, as Act IV drew to its close amid the fading echoes of both gavel and giggle.